


Pathcode (A Pilot)

by Noonabate (GACKTSMUT)



Series: The El Dorado Project [1]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pathcode Teasers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 15:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8019511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GACKTSMUT/pseuds/Noonabate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts in London and ends in Colorado. There are ten number sequences that bring the boys together, but only one of them is tasked to kill them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London, 15.01

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be the first episode of what I hope to be a longer, more fully-realized fic that takes into account the Pathcode era, and how it ties into "Lucky One", "Monster" and "Lotto". This fic started out as character sketches based on the Pathcode teasers and has taken me two years to finish, so I figured I'd add more to the story and make it a grand old adventure. I realize this could take years to build up, but hopefully there will be more stories/chapters added very soon :) Hope you like it!

Rumor has it that the Bolshoi Ballet wanted Kai. So did the Royal Ballet School. And though Juilliard does not have a ballet department, its dance majors whisper about him to an extent that his last performance (Beijing or Seoul?) has become the stuff of urban legend.

What we know so far: that Kai (no, he doesn’t seem to have a last name) is mysterious, beautiful, and exquisitely talented. His technique seems to have been engineered into him, if such a thing were possible. If one were to reveal that Kai was the product of a laboratory, far-fetched as that may sound, we might be tempted to believe it, were it not for the passion that emanates from his body when he moves. Talent can be developed, but passion is still safely beyond the valley of the uncanny. He is young, and very much sought-after.

One day he'd be in Hong Kong, the next Tokyo, Berlin, London. The versions keep changing, depending on the season, the stock market, on who is telling the story. In the summer he might be spotted in the South Bank, making an appearance at some rooftop bar party, hitching up the thin garment of his wife-beater to James Brown four-on-the-floor. In the winter, who knows? He might be seen in other top clubs in the nearest megacity.

He never appears in pictures, and he never stays for longer than twenty minutes, but everyone who has claimed to have been within spitting distance of the mysterious _danseur_ always say they remember seeing him. The really ballsy ones ~~_(liars all of them)_ ~~ always say they got to sleep with him ~~(or at least have given him a quick blow job in the back of a cab.)~~

These days, it’s even harder to predict where Kai will be seen next. Rule of thumb is: wherever he is, there he'd be. 

Although famously known as a dancer without any known affiliation with any dance company (not even the name of the school from where he comes is known) - it is universally accepted in dance circles that Kai's infamy was instant. His reputation hasn't spread or even trickled through the grapevine like gossip. Somehow, the dance world just knew all at once. We all just knew all at once. 

It is almost as though he could be in two or more places at one time, leaving exactly the same effect on whomever it is that he comes into contact with. 

A common origin story that once circulated was that Kai once pitched in for an understudy that suddenly fell ill/got injured/contracted mono on opening night of Swan Lake. The details of this vary, as stories about Kai often do, but in these stories, the production is always a small one and that Kai’s level of performance was like nothing anyone had ever seen before from that particular ballet company. 

Other early stories involve ballet recitals Kai snuck into. One story goes that Kai had appeared onstage after the last dancer finished his or her routine and performed a piece so breathtaking and powerful, and the panel was left befuddled as to who the young man was, his name not being on the roster. 

There are definitely a lot more of these origin stories that nobody could really verify. Who is "Kai"? Where does he come from? How is it that when he moved, people's eyes followed him until he all but disappeared before their eyes? 

 

_(The above article was pulled out at the last minute from publication of Dance Magazine on March 18, 2014. None of the facts from this article could be verified. The author of the piece, [name redacted] could not be contacted for comment.)_


	2. Barcelona, 10.10

Tao knows it isn’t true that time never stops for anyone. After all, time has always stopped for him. He had been born with it, and he never questioned it in the same way he never questioned the privilege with which he was born. 

The scion of a business titan - Tao's life up until now revolved around his father's approval. The first word he had been taught had been "loyalty". His father's word is gospel, finite, irrefutable. As the only legitimate son and heir to several empires, he had always been careful to obey The Word, and not to upset the delicate balance of his relationship with his father.

Still, Tao's father is not a cruel man to his family. The fear Tao felt around the man was not because he feared his safety, but Tao's father showed his might in other ways more damaging than a display of anger. For all his life, Tao did what his father had wanted him to do because he knew of nothing else. His father had insisted on training Tao in the family businesses at a young age, as well as training him in both fine and martial arts. The boy had an aptitude for Wushu, and because he worked hard and practiced everyday without fail, he was competing internationally by the age of ten.

When Tao was twelve, he discovered that he could control time. He could slow it down, speed it up or make it stop altogether. He had wondered if he'd always had it and he just hasn't been aware, or if his "power" was something that developed over time, like the lowering of his vocal chords or his growth spurt. He found he could use it to his advantage, which was why he is never late for anything, and that he always comes prepared. 

Now Tao is a young man of twenty. He has taken over as head of several family businesses. And though he lives a life of responsibility and obligation, he never forgets to be young. His unique position in life has afforded him all kinds of luxury and worldly experience, and he has been availing of them all. 

What his father doesn't know wouldn't kill him. 

So Tao finds himself in Paris one week, and in Barcelona the next for business _and for pleasure_. 

Last night Tao had met a handsome matador, and though Tao liked the young man very much, he doubts that it should lead to anything more meaningful. Either way, Tao is not in any rush. He has all the time in the world. He could steal a handful of nights from any one night his matador gives him, stretch a moment into infinity should he choose to. Tao toys with the possibilities while he waits for his love of the week, choosing to allow time to run its natural course while he sits in a corner of a favorite cafe with the morning paper and a cup of freshly pressed coffee. His ears have been buzzing faintly since he woke up, but he tries to ignore it and credits it to jet lag.

An article on the front page catches Tao's eye - it's an article on the recent sighting of mysterious discs of light over the Collserola mountain range over the last month or so. Funnily enough, when he was in Paris not six days ago, an almost identical article made its way on the local newspaper there as well. Folding the newspaper in half, he tries to shake off the disquieting _déjà vu_ as the buzzing inside his head gets louder.

Overhead, the light bulb goes off, exploding in a violent pop over Tao's head. He shields himself from the shattered glass. His blood runs icy through his limbs as he realizes the air around him has gone denser, quieter. He feels like being stuffed inside a closet with his hands cupped over his ears.

 _I'm not doing this_ , he thinks to himself, getting up on shaky legs. He looks around and sees the other customers inside the cafe have become suspended. Over Tao's head, the light bulb's broken glass pieces hold themselves in space. Tao makes his way to the front of the cafe, as if his movement is the key to bringing time back from its strange standstill. _I'm not doing this, I'm not doing this, I'm not doing this_ , he repeats inside of his mind. 

_Then who is?_


	3. Arizona, 17.12

Chanyeol was born with a pair of golden ears, at least get him drunk on a couple of shots of whiskey and that's what he would tell you. He would have his ears insured in the same way certain celebrities have been known to insure parts of their bodies, if he could have his way. 

Chanyeol is a sound recordist and engineer by trade, and because of his as of yet uninsured ears, he is very very good at what he does. His co-workers would often joke that he is part Beagle, capable of hearing frequencies not normally picked up by human ears. And not only that, but Chanyeol is able to funnel every detail, every nuance of sound and translate that to sound designs that are more visual than they are ambient.

He gets picked for a dream project - working with a nature documentarist on a film about Arizona. He leaves in a week's time, with a team of filmmakers he's never met before. 

On the plane, Chanyeol dreams in surround sound. He imagines the spectrum of textures that are out in the Southwest region of the United States. He reads up on Arizona and thinks about the wildness of the desert and the grandeur of the canyons. He dreams of touching the tones with his fingers, of mapping the sound waves, of pressing his ear as close to the earth as he can. 

The group he travels with is an easygoing bunch. Chanyeol does not have problems opening up to them despite the language barrier, and so far they enjoy each other's company and music taste. One of the guys asks him about the ring Chanyeol has around his finger - a portion of a sound wave circling the silver band. Chanyeol twists the ring on his finger and pretends not to understand the question. Surely, he'll be forgiven for not getting into the whole story using his limited vocabulary. The guys will give him a free pass on this one and surely Baekhyun would forgive him just this once for not mentioning him. 

(After all, forgiveness is what all Baekhyun is about these days, Chanyeol thinks, feeling a bitter spark in his heart.)

In Arizona, he is offered some ayahuasca by one of the guys, and the night is too pregnant, too full of stars to refuse. 

Chanyeol wakes up alone on an empty wheat-colored field. His hat is over his eyes. Beneath him, the grass is dry and brittle. He checks his watch. The sun above him is bright, but cold. It is five o'clock. How long has he been asleep? Where are the others? He feels the ground crunching underneath his feet so he knows this is no dream. And he hears the wind all around him, far too loud to be anything less than alive really. It's a shame he doesn't have his recording equipment with him. Chanyeol walks forward, following the sound of rushing air.

He hears a deep and quiet rumble, a heartbeat amplified about a thousand times, slowed down ten thousand times. Will it sound different on top of that hill? he wonders. On top of those ruins? The air rushes him, like the echo of some distant, forgotten applause. The hiss of an explosion that took place millennia ago. 

Everything is crystal to him - the tinkling of birds, the sound of the mist dropping its veil over the glades. 

He stands in the forest clearing, listening. He hears the fire spreading before he feels the heat of it. How it crackles and spits. 

Chanyeol wakes up with a start. His shirt is drenched in sweat. His companions are strewn around him in the tent, lost in their own fever dreams. He grabs the nearest jacket he could reach before carefully making his way outside into the cool desert air. The sky is star-filled, the inky blue swallowing the tiny pinpricks. A gentle breeze caresses his face and Chanyeol sinks back to the ground, feeling thirsty and exhausted, but also released. He tries to peer into the darkness, but all he sees is the expanse of a desert. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a box of matches. 

He is wide awake now, striking match after match after match, not noticing the sky igniting into a sunrise.


	4. Berlin, 5.07

Xiumin is wasted six days out of seven. Xiumin drinks to forget. Or maybe, Xiumin drinks to remember. Doesn’t matter, really because ever since Luhan left him, Xiumin has forgotten how to function. He is broken in the way a machine can malfunction, in the way a string of code can contain errors. Only Xiumin can’t fix it because he is unable to map exactly where the error is. And if there is one thing Xiumin is good at, it’s code. If he suddenly can’t do that, what then? 

People pay Xiumin to do two things - create codes or break them. It doesn’t matter who is making the request if they pay well. And pay well they do. Xiumin doesn’t think about the implications of whatever code he creates or breaks down - he could be breaking into a government’s system and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash. He is good at keeping secrets. He knows all about having them and how important it is to keep them safe. And if he happens to collect a paycheck because of all the secrets he has to keep, then he is all the more richer for being a quiet man. 

Two summers ago Luhan told him, “I want to live here.” Luhan had fallen in love with the city on their “honeymoon” as Luhan liked to joke. Luhan was a pop star, or at least he was trying to be one at the time. He was also pursuing Xiumin like crazy. The reason why wasn’t clear, but in typical Xiumin fashion, he didn’t actually question why Luhan would call him everyday asking him out for coffee, then when Xiumin declined, show up unannounced at his work to bring Xiumin the hot beverage. All Xiumin did for Luhan was fix his smart phone settings. Any idiot who had an Oppo could have done the same for him. 

He didn’t want to fall in love with Luhan, but they had more in common than Xiumin first thought. Coffee and soccer was just the tip of the iceberg. And although Luhan couldn’t write code to save his life or even comprehend what Xiumin did for a living, he had inevitably created the most tantalizing one Xiumin had ever dared to crack. 

“I want to bring my family and live here,” Luhan said. He looked at Xiumin then, who was thinking if “family” included him. He never had to ask. “I want to live here with you. I think you might like it here. It suits your cold heart,” Luhan had joked. “You’d acclimatize.” Xiumin wasn’t convinced at first but all Luhan had to do was take Xiumin’s hands in his and call him Baozi. 

Then the pop star career took off and Luhan was shuttling back and forth from Berlin to Shanghai. Xiumin’s career also flourished. He would have given that up had Luhan asked him to move to China with him. He didn’t. That was the error. Xiumin fails to see this (or chooses to overlook it). He still hopes Luhan would come back to him. 

And so Xiumin drinks. His routine is simple - he goes out around ten in the evening and comes stumbling back to his apartment before the sun rises. He has his favorite bars where they know his face, but lately, he’s been feeling the need to become anonymous so he tries others and ends up staying later than intended. 

When he gets home, it is the same - he turns on the T.V to static as he fixes himself one last drink before bedtime. The white noise clears his mind, is soothing. The television crackles to life. Xiumin is slumped over his sofa, their sofa, an expensive one he and Luhan had both picked out at the furniture shop and carried up to the fourth floor of their apartment building. The flat is almost empty, save for sofa the cheap old T.V on loan from one of his bartender friends. Xiumin wonders when he will have to let go of all this when his savings run out. 

The white noise on the television set is interrupted by a noise Xiumin does not recognize. He would have ignored it, had it not been repetitive, had it not been deliberate. He angles his head up, mildly curious. 

15.25 - Edinburgh.

Xiumin catches it. Knows a message when he sees one. Knows which codes matter. Knows which ones he can break. Knows which ones can break him. Luhan already had. Xiumin wasn’t about to let this one do the same.


	5. Edinburgh, 15.25

Sehun always keeps his cool no matter what. He is notorious for his poker face and his deceptively vacant eyes. Most people simply assume him to be slow because of the slackness in his expression. However, it is not impossible to shock Sehun into breaking out a reaction. It is just notoriously difficult. In the rare occasion this happens, the effect it has on his face is quite dramatic. For example, when Sehun is truly delighted, he shows it. His eyes become narrow moon crescents, and he smiles like a four year old. Winning at stupid carnival games, ridiculous and useless (but thoughtful) birthday gifts, walking through a field of dandelions - these are some of the things that delights the impassiveness out of Sehun's features. People who are close to him see Sehun’s happy face on rare occasions while the rest of the world only get the poker face. 

He has been working as a nanny of sorts to two small children - Jack and James, twin boys aged five who are just as stoic as Sehun. Sehun “inherited” the job from his _hyung_ , Suho who had to leave the city in the spring to attend to a mysterious errand. It is fall now, and in this short span of time, both Jack and James has had the pleasure of seeing Sehun’s happy face, and Sehun the twins’. It happened on the day they met, when Suho was turning over the job to him.

Sehun had simply asked one question out of curiosity. “ _Ya_ , who do you think is more handsome? Me or _hyung_?” 

The twins considered the question while ping-ponging glances from the stranger to their beloved nanny Suho. Finally, one twin pointed to Sehun and the other to Suho. Then, both changed their minds and pointed in the opposite direction at the exact same moment. 

Boom - happy face. This surprised Suho because he has known his _dongsaeng_ for a long time and this was only his second time to see this happy face of his. (The first was when Suho bought Sehun a birthday cake.) It was also the first time he had seen the twins smile. Suho was also relieved because though he had to leave to attend to urgent matters, he was confident that he would be leaving the twins in good hands. 

Sehun didn’t have to do much while minding the twins. He simply had to show up at their house from one in the afternoon when the twins came home from school and stay until five-thirty, when the twins’ mother returned home from work. The twins played well on their own and if Sehun brought over a DVD, he could practically just leave them in front of the T.V. He had an easy job that paid well, and it would have been simple had it not been for the very last thing his _hyung_ told him about the twins right before he left. Sehun kept waiting for the shoe to drop, but so far it hasn’t. That doesn’t mean he has stopped thinking about it. He thinks about it every time he steps into the twins’ house. 

Sehun gets a message from the twins’ mother to come pick up Jack and James at their doctor’s, which is an unusual instruction. He decides to walk there, because it’s a nice day - a little overcast, a little on the gloomy side, but perfect conditions for walking. 

Nobody answers when Sehun rings at the front door, so he makes his way to the back of the house, where he finds the lounge door open. Letting himself in, he sees a toy airplane floating in mid-air. He pokes it. The twins are definitely playing. 

“There’s something you need to know about the twins,” Suho had told him. “They are…different.”

“Different how, _hyung_?” 

“Like you and me.” 

Jack and James are looking up at their floating toys. This is completely normal for them, Sehun has seen the twins playing this way a hundred times. This is why Suho ensured Sehun got the job when he left. 

Yet something is off. The air is too still. Like things moving in slow motion. The hairs on the back of Sehun’s neck stand on attention. He wants to make sure the twins are all right, but before he can do anything, they both look at something behind Sehun. 

The air starts to vibrate and whistle. Outside, an eclipse makes everything go dark. 

“Stay right where you are,” he tells the twins, rushing out the door. Whoever or whatever was behind him has gone and instinct tells him to go after it. 

Sehun’s expression never changes, even though he has never been more afraid in his entire life.


	6. Marseilles, 10.22

Soo Man had always told Suho, “You are a leader. You are capable of great things.” Seven years inside Soo Man’s facility, being drilled this day-in and day- out as part of his indoctrination. There had been days when Suho was convinced the training would never end - that he would spend the rest of his days being tested, being assessed, being told the same things by an army of nameless, faceless specialists. Ever obedient, Suho complied with all the requirements asked of him. All the standardized tests he had to take, he finished them all, completing the tasks set out within the time frames given. A battery of test after test after test. He did them all without ever finding out what his results were - if he ever came up short or if he surpassed expectations he never knew. Always, when Suho found himself at the end of his rope, Soo Man himself would come to see him and repeat the words Suho was fed daily. Somehow it mattered more when Soo Man said it. 

Other children were brought in to the facility and Suho got to know quite a number of them. Those who were older than him (in age, as well as how long they had been inside with him) got to leave earlier than Suho. Later on he noticed that some of the younger children, and some who entered after Suho did were already leaving and putting their training to good use. Meanwhile, Suho stayed. He tried not to think it was because he was not good enough to leave just yet, but seven years is a long time not to think it. 

“Do they tell you that you are a leader?” Suho once asked D.O, a boy with big eyes and a quiet, observant demeanor. 

“No,” D.O said. When D.O spoke it was barely above a whisper, which was why Suho came to speak with him in the first place. Suho felt strange about vocalizing his thoughts, but he had a feeling that it would be safe to ask D.O. Suho didn’t realize it but he was holding his breath until he released it. _So it must be different for each one_ , he thought, resting his forehead on his work station and enjoying the cool, metallic feel of it on his skin. He felt better. He felt special. 

When Suho eventually got to leave, it happened swiftly and without ceremony. He received instructions in a kit, a new identity and everything that came along with the identity to maintain it. Suho was overjoyed. He was less thrilled though, at finding out what instructions he had been given, but steeled himself by thinking about what he had gone through to be entrusted with this mission. Patience was one of the lessons Suho had worked hard to master. 

_Wait_. That was the mission. No other details came with it, except with regard to his new identity and placement. He picked a job from the list of available options - _caretaker, house sitter, au pair_. 

Suho thought it unlikely that he would ever meet someone like him, but he did. Three of them, in fact: the two children he was placed in charge of as an au pair and Sehun, a boy he met at a bubble tea shop. Sehun was a few years younger than him, but he had talents Suho suspected the boy was unaware he had. He had such a poker face that gave Suho the most royal of flushes. He was never sure what kind of relationship they had, but Sehun for all his stoicism liked to be babied and Suho was very fond of him. They never took whatever relationship they had to a more physical level, but sometimes Suho felt Sehun getting restless. It just felt wrong for Suho to take advantage of Sehun that way but Sehun never pushed. Had Sehun initiated, Suho would not have taken a second thought. 

As abrupt as his departure from the facility was, Suho was again contacted for a change in mission placement. The details came in a new kit - France, this time. Same identity, thank god but then again, same objective. 

_Wait_.


	7. Almaty, 20.01

For the first time in twenty-two years, Chen goes out without an umbrella. He always make it a point to have one with him, because whenever he steps out of the house, he hears thunder. It doesn’t always rain, but the thunder he hears is ominous enough for someone to take precaution, and Chen has always been a cautious person. Guarded, even. 

He doesn’t have many friends he trusts, even though he has a gregarious nature and is well-liked, considered popular even by his co-workers at the bank he works for. He is always invited out to drinks and whenever he is teased to take up the microphone to sing during parties, Chen is always game, leading sing-a-longs and forming conga lines around the pub his officemates frequent after hours. Chen may be a risk management specialist by day, but he knows how to party by night.

Despite his popularity, none of his co-workers know much about Chen, other than the fact he sings really well and could even go professional with it. He staves off offers to be set-up with their single female friends and relatives, which does cause some speculation to go around regarding his preferences for a partner. A couple others have offered to set Chen up with their single male friends, but Chen laughs these off as well and doesn’t seem to be interested in pursuing any relationships romantic in nature. 

This is Chen merely being cautious. So while he is familiar with and is exposed to all kinds of risks from credit risks to market risks, it’s the emotional ones that are his least favorite. The stakes are simply too high for him. Chen is careful now not to bring thunder into anyone else’s life. When he remembers Kris, his resolve to never again do that to another person strengthens. 

It is Kris he thinks about as he realizes he has stepped out sans umbrella on his way to his meeting. Chen’s boss has just given him the assignment. _What luck_ , Chen thinks. _Just when I am about to leave for the day, too_. He is handed a small leather-bound book and is instructed to bring it to his meeting.

The Soo Man Group has requested for Chen specifically. While Chen finds himself flattered that an important-sounding company has requested for him by name, he dismisses the thought just as easily as it comes. After all, he does have a Korean name, and the company, thinking it would be easier to communicate with him, has requested he handle the account. 

Chen feels the thunder before he hears it, and he hurries into the building where his meeting is supposed to take place. He double checks the floor on his mobile phone as he tries to locate the elevator. Dismayed that there is none, he braces himself for a walk up to the topmost floor. The place hardly looks inhabited, let alone the base head quarters for a multi-national company. Despite it being empty, the building remains handsome - it is one of those old, well-preserved buildings that are often transformed into boutique hotels. 

Chen tries to imagine the space the Soo Man Group probably envisions for the space - ultra modern fixtures within a more traditional structure. He’s seen enough office spaces built around a similar fashion, and based on the prospectus and his research on The Soo Man Group, knows that one of their core businesses is in the media. 

Chen could hear his footsteps echo within the space of the building as he makes his way to the top floor. Instead of an office, he finds himself on an open rooftop boasting a magnificent view of Almaty. White sheets on several laundry lines flap in the wind as the bells of the Zenkhov Cathedral toll in the distance. 

_What’s up there?_ Chen spots a tower-like structure atop the open roof. Curiosity getting the better of him, Chen makes his way to it. 

There is a seat and a small side table on top of which, many old books are stacked one on top of the next. Chen catches his breath and takes a seat. He is not sure if he should wait and to be honest, he is not sure what exactly he is waiting for. Chen opens the book he has carried from the office, which appears to be some sort of novel about beautiful human-like beings carrying special abilities. 

Chen doesn’t read novels, and he’s sure this is the first time he’s reading this particular story, but if that’s true, how come he can almost recite the passages before his eyes even land on the words? 

Above him, clouds pass across the sun and this time, Chen is sure he hears thunder. He looks up and sees the sky darkening with the most incredible eclipse he has ever seen in his life. In the distance a storm gathers, and Chen has a feeling that whatever is coming his way, it’s going to take a lot more than an umbrella to shield him from the storm.


	8. Lyon, 6.27

Baekhyun has far too much to atone for. He knew this even as he took his priestly vows two years ago. For while his faith is strong and unshakable, so are his desires, and sometimes those desires become too big and too bright for him to handle. There had to be a way to be both a man of the cloth and a creature of desire. Baekhyun means to find it. 

In the meantime, his decision to pursue the priesthood has produced two casualties. Himself and Chanyeol, his best friend, soul mate and by far the best lover he has ever had. Though thinking of Chanyeol still hurt like a thousand lashes across his back, it remains a small comfort to Baekhyun that he has never lied to Chanyeol. Not about joining the priesthood, and certainly never about what he wanted in a relationship. Chanyeol just couldn’t handle it. 

Chanyeol had set fire to his own bed. “Do you really think that is going to make me stay?” Baekhyun said. “You can’t use that as a weapon to keep me here.” There was no venom in his voice, only a sad exhaustion.

“What if I set myself on fire, then?” Chanyeol had threatened. 

“But you already do, Yeol,” Baekhyun said, feeling the weight of all his conflicting desires on his heart. He wanted Chanyeol so badly but he had made Baekhyun choose. 

And Baekhyun thought he was the dramatic one.

They met in boarding school and had instantly become attracted to each other. It helped that there was only a handful of Korean students at St. Sebastian, but even then, the two were a minority among the minority. Baekhyun recognized that Chanyeol was not like the other boys. 

Chanyeol was the only person who could keep up with Baekhyun’s inexhaustible energy. If the school had allowed students to join all the extra-curricular clubs, Chanyeol and Baekhyun would have joined them all. They were both on the school’s rowing team and the Music Club. They were jocks and nerds at the same time together.

They got up in the ass-crack of every morning to train for the rowing team, and spent most nights listening to records. In between these pursuits was the monotony of attending Latin, Math, Chemistry and History, in which both boys did exceptionally well. It was almost too easy for them. Between the academic and extra-curricular work, Baekhyun and Chanyeol still had a lot of fuel to burn.

They found new ways with which to fill their extra time. At first it didn’t mean anything, just two friends helping each other ease the pent-up sexual frustration of being trapped in boarding school. Baekhyun didn’t think there was much of a difference between using his own hand and using Chanyeol’s hand. They were simply messing around, and that was all. 

Until he’d kissed Chanyeol and realized he could never imagine kissing anyone else, man or woman. And with their first kiss he knew that he was in deep trouble. 

Baekhyun and Chanyeol had always been inseparable, and of a single mind in most things except when it came to faith. Baekhyun was never ashamed of being devout. Chanyeol on the other hand, was a heathen through and through. 

Baekhyun was sure that Chanyeol enjoyed breaking him far too much, that part of the thrill was tempting Baekhyun and getting Baekhyun to do it over and over again. For Baekhyun it was so much more than the thrill. So he ended it by choosing a path Chanyeol would never be able to follow. 

That had been five years ago. Neither had made an attempt to contact the other, but Baekhyun had a way of keeping tabs on Chanyeol. It didn’t come cheap, but working for the Vatican did have its perks. Having information was just one of them. 

Baekhyun is meeting his contact at the specified meeting place. There is a rectory behind the Church of the Holy Sacrifice. Baekhyun is on his way there now. He has dressed out of his clerics and is wearing black from head to toe. When not in his priest’s vestments, he always preferred leather. 

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he is being followed. 

It's probably nothing, but Baekhyun lowers the volume on his earphones. He turns around for a second time, not sure what he's expecting to see. Above him, the street lamps flicker ominously. Those things tended to do that whenever Baekhyun’s heart rate sped up. 

If he doesn't hurry up, he is going to be late for his meeting. He makes his way up the steps to get to the rectory, when white noise interferes with the music from his mobile phone. He plucks one earphone out, but the buzz is still there - in the air around him, crackling. 

Pulling out his mobile phone, he discovers he has one unread message from a private number. It has only one word on it.

 _Run_. 

Pure instinct makes Baekhyun move. He doesn't notice the street lamps exploding as he passes until he could barely see in front of him. His heart is pounding like crazy, but doesn't stop putting one foot in front of the other to get away from God knows what. _No matter what you do, don’t stop running_.

This had only happened once before - when he had made the city dark. Baekhyun had been feeling a hundred kinds of nervous, uncontrollable and wild. It was just after finals junior year at St. Sebastian. Baekhyun and Chanyeol were in a celebratory mood and had ended up making out by the Carillion. Baekhyun was drunk, and getting drunker on Chanyeol kissing him on his collarbone, on his neck, on his lips, and touching him under his shirt. The single bulb that lit the small room at the top of the Carillion was already flickering, almost giving the small space a stobe-like effect. When Baekhyun was younger, he used to play with the lights at home too, switching them on and off to create the feeling of being inside a club. He remembered laughing at the memory as Chanyeol bit into the sensitive flesh at the base of his neck. 

“ I think I’m in love with you,” Chanyeol had murmured against his skin. 

Baekhyun gripped Chanyeol’s hair tight. “Stop joking,” he whimpered. He was Chanyeol’s partner in crime in all his pranks, except this one. He couldn’t joke along this time, because for him, it was serious. 

Chanyeol yelped and laughed, groping low for Baekhyun’s zipper. Baekhyun was powerless against Chanyeol’s ministrations. His erection was almost painful, his cock begging to be touched. Chanyeol knelt before Baekhyun and took him in his mouth for the first time, his hands on either side of Baekhyun’s slender hips, pinning him against the wall behind him. 

Baekhyun squeezed his eyes shut as he exhaled. He was not ready for the orgasm that hit him, melting his insides with white heat. When he opened his eyes, the naked light bulb above them had sputtered out. He turned his face to one side in time to see the lights of St. Sebastian shut down one after the other. 

“Lord,” he’d said, in disbelief. 

“I thought it was a sin to take the Lord’s name in vain,” Chanyeol said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning up at Baekhyun in the naughtiest way possible. Baekhyun’s heart rate was calming down already but seeing Chanyeol giving him the mosty wicked grin was getting it up again real quick. 

Baekhyun wasn't running then, and even though he was nervous, he wasn’t scared the way he is now. He isn’t even sure if he is doing this at all - causing the whole city to black out. 

At the end of the path is a locked gate. Baekhyun feels his lungs about to explode. The air around him is totally still, totally dark. The only sound he could hear is the sound of his breathing. He waits for whatever is giving him chase and prays that wherever Chanyeol is that he is safe and that he knows Baekhyun loved him. _Loves_ him. He never did stop. 

“Lord,” he says, this time in prayer, as he watches the world as he knows it drown in darkness.


	9. Yunnan, 22.12

Lay’s grandmother used to tell him when he was a student _“The law is a jealous mistress.”_ Her eyes always sparkled with an almost playful wisdom whenever she said it, and she said it often. When her intelligent and gentle-mannered grandson joked that she said it so often he would have it tattooed on him so she wouldn’t have to keep reminding him, she chuckled, keeping the punch line of her private joke to herself. After all, she knew that the law was not Lay’s first love. 

Healing was. 

Lay’s aptitude for healing became apparent when Lay was a small boy. He had a green thumb, and growing and caring for living things came naturally to him. Small baby animals would approach him, as though their instinct told them no harm would come to them should they draw near Lay. He radiated kindness wherever he went. 

It was not without a tiny sliver of disappointment then on Lay’s grandmother’s part when Lay chose the law over medicine, for she always envisioned him a healer rather than a defender, a pursuer of truth. 

“Can’t I be both?” Lay had reasoned, the dimple on his right cheek deepening whenever he spoke his heart. To him, the law had its own brand of healing, especially when it was used to bring wrong to right, and justice to those who needed it. 

“You sound so much like your grandfather,” his grandmother had said. Lay’s grandfather had been a man of the law. He was the Deputy Police Chief, and a fair and just one until the day of his death, a day his grandmother would not speak of. The old woman sighed, and the weight of its sound made Lay to want to lift the story out of her. One day he hoped he would be strong enough to do it.

Still, his grandmother never directly discouraged Lay out of his studies so Lay continued to pursue the law, to woo it, until he graduated at the top of his class. While most of his classmates had gone on to cushy internships with big multinational corporations, Lay interned at the small, humble law firm of the Honorable Judge Dee, who never suffered fools and was as mean, sharp-tempered, and impatient as he was exacting and brilliant. He was known as the last of the honest men, a true believer, he who wears the white hat. And as such men lived, he never became rich, and never enjoyed the adulation, fame and glory of having won his most important cases. Instead, what he had earned was the respect of his peers and his juniors. Many a law student – at least those who were idealistic and wanted to make a difference would submit their letters of application to his firm, despite the known fact that Judge Dee never took in interns. 

Lay never applied, but the day after his graduation day, Lay was summoned to the Judge’s office, nondescript rooms on the top floor of the city’s Capitol. When he told his grandmother, she did not say a word. She hugged her grandson to her chest instead so he would not see her tears.

“Zhang,” the old man said when Lay entered the Judge’s main chambers, surprisingly well-lit compared to the decrepit state of the rest of the building. He hadn’t expected the office to be quite so modern looking, nor furnished so handsomely. The chambers smelled like seasoned leather and oak, with the ghost of cigar smoke in the air. It smelled of power and authority. 

The Judge was eighty-two, and surprisingly very fit for a man his age. Lay liked to keep fit by dancing and playing basketball, and he generally liked his own physique on most days. Seeing Judge Dee now, he suddenly felt chastised about the beers he had at his graduation party the night before. Judge Dee looked formidable. 

The Judge did not look up as Lay crossed the room, but spoke his name as though Lay had come ten minutes late to the meeting. He had been ten minutes early, in fact. 

“I knew your grandfather you know,” the Judge said, taking a seat on his large leather chair. He made a short gesture for Lay to do the same, so Lay sat on one of the chairs in front of the Judge’s big oak table, a lone white rose in a glass vase positioned to one side. Its blossom had fully bloomed and was already drooping slightly. It was the one detail that seemed a little out of place from the meticulously arranged desk and polish of the Judge’s chambers. “He was my junior at the Academy. We worked on many cases together.” 

“Sir,” Lay said, nodding once. His grandfather often spoke of Judge Dee, who had been a detective before he became a lawyer, but “had always been a pedantic pain in the ass”. Lay made the wise decision of not mentioning it now. He pressed his lips together, pushing out his dimple. 

“You have his face,” Judge Dee said, momentarily sweeping his eyes over Lay. Having finalized his internal assessment of Deputy Zhang’s grandson, the judge straightened his back and fixed Lay with a severe glare. “I’d like you to start at the firm,” he said, cutting to the chase. “Be here by eight tomorrow morning.”

Lay had accepted without question. This was where he was meant to be, he knew it. He could feel it in his cells, though he could not explain how. If his grandfather was still alive, he was sure that this was where he would have wanted Lay to be. 

Lay did not see the Judge pour himself a drink after he left. Scotch. The old man liked his Scotch neat. Lay did not yet know the Judge’s habits and his predilections. Lay did not see the Judge’s wizened hand tremble as he lifted his glass to his lips nor did he hear the Judge saying to himself, “Tomorrow might already be too late” as the lights inside his chambers flickered. 

The Judge’s eyes landed on the rose inside its vase on his table just before the lights went out completely. Moments ago it was well on its way to wilting, but now it had been fully restored to health, dewy and radiant amidst the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes mention of Judge Dee, who is a character based on a character of the same name who is, in turn based on a semi-historical figure. I borrowed the name as a blatant reference to this figure in literature - mainly I wanted to write something in which Yixing interacted with an "updated" version of the Judge Dee character.


	10. Colorado, 9.01

Do Kyungsoo - a private citizen and a part-time spy. His days follow a set routine, when he isn’t on an official assignment. He prefers to keep things simple, to keep tasks strict as clockwork, to bring a sense of normalcy to his days. Best to be predictable and boring, so that there is no need for questions to be raised, no speculation about who he is or what he does. Do Kyungsoo prefers that he be thought of as dull on the outside, that no one pay him any mind. 

He gets up before sunrise for his daily run, comes back to his one-bedroom apartment for a breakfast of coffee (black), two slices of toasted white bread, three sausage links and scrambled eggs. Sometimes there is some sort of fruit, sometimes not. 

Then he showers – no more than twenty minutes. Four days out seven he’s out in twelve minutes. A man’s got to take care of himself and Kyungsoo prefers to do it in the mornings so that his head is clear. He always thinks of a boy he’s seen dance a long time ago, though he cannot remember if this was in a dream. 

Kyungsoo works, but his work is not so stressful that he is able to take extended leaves when he is called on official assignment from his work at the Sir Walter Raleigh Museum of Archeology and Anthropology. In fact, the tactile and repetitive nature of his work is rather relaxing. Kyungsoo manually encodes numbers into ledgers from 9AM to 5PM, Monday to Friday. His work is classified as “cataloguing”. This is not stressful work by any stretch of the imagination, except on very rare days when he receives a specific set of numbers to be catalogued in a separate ledger.

After work, Kyungsoo likes to take a few hours to unwind by heading to the supermarket or taking a walk around the plaza, maybe browse for a new paperback in the chain bookstore. He’s always back by eight in the evening, and in bed by ten. 

On weekends he tidies up around his place and finds loose hinges he could repair. There is always a cupboard or a doorknob in need of replacement, screws that need to be tightened. On Sundays he attends mass. 

Kyungsoo’s days are tidy, predictable and serene when he isn’t called on official assignment. 

His days are anything but when he is. And right now things are about to get a lot less tidy, predictable and serene.

Do Kyungsoo – a part-time spy and one of the most deadly assassins that ever pretended to be a private citizen receives the intelligence for his assignment the same way he has for the last five years. He receives the packet while cataloguing. 

Today is a rare day, when Kyungsoo feels his stress forming in the bead of sweat threatening to roll down the side of his temple, when he receives a very special set of numbers that need to be catalogued in a very special way. 

_1501.1010.1525.1712.0507.1525.2001.0627.2212.0901._

Kyungsoo checks his watch. The second-hand dial moves to the first minute past nine in the morning. 

He doesn’t believe in coincidences and he isn’t about to start now. He gets up from his table, requests for a leave form from the office secretary, fills it out and files it. Five minutes later he’s logged out. He knows by ten he’ll have packed lightly for the assignment, on a private plane by eleven and stationed at the designated location by a little over eleven hours. After that, he has no way to calculate or predict the outcome of the assignment. He could be back home this time tomorrow. 

Or he could also be dead. 

He would have a little over eleven hours to process the many different outcomes of his assignment, and to ask himself why he had received ten sequences instead of nine. 

Ten. Ten he would have to kill. The last one being himself.


End file.
